Sherlock and Dr Watson At Oxford University
by Georgia Sherlust
Summary: It all starts when Sherlock is called by Lestrade to investigate a murder at Oxford University, where Dr John Watson is a lecturer. It is a story of romance, crime and johnlock- especially in later chpaters (3 and 4).
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock and Dr Watson At Oxford University**

_Chapter 1_

Sherlock sauntered up to the stately, antique sand coloured doors which concealed a home for the most prestigious, avant garde scholars to ever walk the Earth. Brasenose college, Oxford university. As Sherlock's hand brushed against the Brasenose knocker over half of a millenniums history flashed through his head- Brasenose College, Oxford: founded 1509 on the site of Brasenose Hall. Name is believed to derive from a bronze knocker that adorned the hall's door. Significant past pupils: William Golding, Kate Allen, Henry Addington, Douglas Haig, David Cameron. Sherlock felt as though he were flying now, elated on this deluxe knowledge and even better: a murder!

He had been sat at home playing his violin with such impatience that the melody was barely tolerable, but when he had received a call that there had been a murder of a student at Oxford University, he had thrown his hands and the air and cried out in joy- a murder involving fiercely intelligent minds should certainly be interesting!

So, what did he know so far? One young man found dead, apparently from poisoning, in his en-suite room this morning at approximately 3.26am. He was studying medicine, and coincidentally (or rather not, as Sherlock thought) his current module was toxic and poisonous substances. The class professor was Dr John Watson, who he would see soon. He had read of Dr Watson before, and with his deep knowledge of medicine Sherlock had often found himself admiring the passion of his work.

"Sherlock!" a brusque male voice called, interrupting his thoughts. Sherlock turned to see Detective Greg Lestrade beckoning him towards one of the staircases leading up to the rooms. Staircase 10 to be exact, or X if you prefer the Roman.

Sherlock pulled his scarf tighter around his neck in reply and sharply pulled the thick black collar of his famously extensive black coat to straighten it out and continued towards Lestrade. "Anderson will be along with forensics soon, you'll be pleased to hear." he gave a mocking smile "Try to refrain from insulting him this time?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I don't insult, I just point out his stupidity. Surely a little honesty never hurt anyone." Lestrade laughed, he didn't have the energy to argue back, plus he secretly applauded Sherlock's confidence.

They walked into a fair sized room complete with mini fridge, two beds and large TV. "TV-watcher. Bound to get him in trouble." Sherlock tutted, Lestrade shaking his head with a tired disbelief. "Quite. Now, this is the deceased." Lying face down on the floor, he could have been mistaken for an average university student who had over-partied and come home desperately needing sleep in the early hours of the morning. Of course, this was a little different. "And the roommate? Clearly not the best of friends…" Sherlock said dismissively.

"What? Why not?"

"His bed- the one with the photo of the boy that isn't this one-" he gestured to the body lying in the floor- "hasn't been slept in for some days. It's the middle of term time, he should have been there. Not just that, but there's food under the bed, hidden from his roommate. Why wouldn't he put it in the mini-fridge? Ah, yes, because he didn't want to share it with someone he disliked. Hmm…but he hasn't always disliked him. See that? Two wallets together on that table. They wouldn't have left their wallets anywhere near the other one if they didn't have some sort of mutual trust- so there used to be friendship. But a recent deterioration…" Lestrade stood dumbfounded.

"Well, um, yes Sherlock- you're right. There were reports of loud arguments this week, which people thought was odd…They'd been really good friends before." Instead of gloating, Sherlock's expression didn't change.

"Indeed. And was he in the same class as the victim?"

"Yep. Both taking Dr John Watsons class this term."

"Good. Right- look around. Just look for anything interesting." Sherlock commanded, stepping right over the victim's body, and starting to pull open draws, tear piles of clothes up and throw common objects across the room. Suddenly he sighed, gave a little chuckle and then muttered "Oh for goodness sake." His voice then grew louder, his theory becoming more and more solid in his mind. "Call Anderson. Tell him we don't need him."

"Sherlock, no matter how much you dislike him, we need him to do his job-"

"No." Sherlock interrupted. "I've got it. See this?" He held up a golden bound book: 'Alexander the Great: The Mystery'. "On either 10 or 11 June 323 BC, Alexander died in the palace of Nebuchadnezzar II, in Babylon- there are many theories about his death, but it's obvious, _obvious_ that it was poison. He drank some mildly poisoned wine, upon which he felt agony and tried to throw it back up. He was given a feather to do so- so that it would reach right to the back of his neck. But the feather was poisoned- and that ended him. Riveting stuff, but this imitator is just boring. So boring! Why steal someone else's method? Boring, unoriginal minds." He ran his hands through his thick, sprouting curly hair and let out a groan. "Turn the body over." Lestrade hesitated, but then pulled the body so that it was facing up. An immediate stench of vomit filled the room, and Lestrade covered his mouth.

"Yes-okay, okay. Ugh, that stinks. Let's get out." They walked outside, Sherlock feeling proud of himself, but at the same time sincerely let down.

"I was hoping for something a little more interesting." He scowled, like a disappointed toddler who had been told Santa Clause was in fact, his father. " You do some more checks on the roommate, the body. I have someone to go and see." He looked at his watch, Dr John Watsons lecture was in twenty minutes. He could not miss this.

"Thanks Sherlock- saved me a headache yet again." Lestrade smiled.

"Anytime!" Sherlock shouted, already half way down the stairs.

Sherlock watched John's hands as he moved. Picking up deathly poisons one after the other without so much as a flinch. "Previous traumatic experience", he thought to himself. "Not scared of much anymore." He watched how Dr Watson made little jokes- followed by smiles which didn't quite reach his eyes. "Lonely." He thought again. Yet he didn't pity him, just recognised the oh-so human trait. One of the women who worked at the Morgue back in St. Bartholomew's Hospital had once told him that he himself looked lonely. It had taken Sherlock rather by surprise- lonely? He could recognise it in others so easily but he never thought to apply it to his own life. That aside, Sherlock had simply brushed it off.

But now, watching John Watson, the way he had a slight limp in one of his legs, and the way he sometimes hesitated in his words, he started to wonder. Was he lonely? Was something missing in his life? Abruptly, this trail of thought vanished at the sound of an adorning applause. Dr Watson kept bowing his head, as though he was answering a question. He then started to pack up his equipment. As rows of heavy-headed students began to file out, Sherlock started to skitter down the endless steps towards Watson, his heart beating at an unusual rate. "Dr John Watson. I'm Sherlock Holmes." He said, as Dr Watson turned around, an empty smile appearing.

"John. Call me John, please. Are you a student?" Sherlock almost blushed, putting one of his hands to the back of his neck.

"No-no. I just solved a murder. Pretty boring really. I just came to say that this was interesting talk, however I quite disagree with your description of Cyanide as the deadliest poison. Arsenic concerns me more- much more available, much more subtle."

"Oh. Um, well yes. I suppose if you think about it like that…" John said, "But- solving a murder? You're a detective?"

"Of sorts," Sherlock let out a boyish smile. "The way you spoke about the poisons- all the different kinds. Intriguing." Sherlock pretended to be impressed, but of course he already knew all about poison. "Reminds me of tobacco ash- there are 243 types in fact."

"Oh. Interesting," John replied, returning back to packing up his things.

"For God's sake Sherlock!" Sherlock thought to himself. John was making him nervous- he had never felt this before. His palms were sweating and his heartbeat had increased even further. "Sorry." His eyes creased as he let out a little laugh, John joining in. John turned to look at him- properly this time. He stared right into Sherlock's eyes, and took in his crystal-like cheekbones. This time he smiled- and it stretched right into his eyes which gave a warm glint.

"No-no, 243 types. Very interesting." He was still grinning. "God- It's been a long time since I've had tobacco. You've made me miss it now," he joked, sliding into a black leather jacket, with soft padded elbows and shoulders.

"Ah!" Sherlock said, "You're in luck." He pulled out a pack of Marlboro from his pocket, and a lighter from the other. John chuckled.

"I'm alright thanks. Gave up a long time ago."

"Oh." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, disappointed. "I'm pretty desperate actually, if you don't mind." He started to light the dirty white end, breathing in sharply so that his cheekbones were on full display. John didn't know whether to laugh, he couldn't believe his eyes.

"This is a lecture theatre!" He shook his head, laughing. "Can't smoke in here. I'll walk you out though, show you where you can."

"Rules." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "boring." But he smiled at John, feeling a peculiar warmth towards him. They walked out, Sherlock still smoking and John feeling a clumsy fondness towards the intriguing man in the big black coat.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

"Sherlock? Hope I got your number right, forgot to check. Anyway, meet at 7 outside staircase 10?" Sherlock read as he picked up his buzzing phone. He smiled, brushing his hand over the screen to clear it of any greasy marks, or so he told himself. He liked John, since meeting him that afternoon they had agreed to meet in the evening once more before Sherlock went back to his flat in London. He could tell from the text that John liked him too- the way he had written an unnecessary "anyway" to appear as though he wasn't overly keen.

Sherlock found himself feeling a cosy fondness towards his new friendship- a word that before had not been in his everyday vocabulary. Checking the time, he started to pull his coat round his scrawny, yet impressively defined body. He hastily pulled the collar up, and tousled his hand through his darkly quilted hair. Time to go.

Walking along the frosty streets of Oxford he did not feel the least bit cold. He was pleasantly tepid from the adrenaline flowing through his body- excitement, he thought. Odd, he thought. Arriving once again at the doors of Brasenose, he no longer had the feeling of the satisfied knowledge of the history surrounding him. Now that he had been there once, it was old to him. Yet his excitation towards John still remained.

Two burly men carrying a very large, elaborate painting bumped in to him as they tried to move past him in the narrow hallway leading out to the charming old quad, filled with petite plants which blossomed round the edges of the finely cut grass. Catching a glimpse of the figure on the painting, Sherlock closed his eyes and paused as a surge of recognition flowed through his mind. Henry Addington (or a.k.a Lord Sidmouth). Lived 1757-1844. Prime Minister of the United Kingdom 14 March 1801 – 10 May 1804. Tory. Attended Brasnose College, Oxford. Today stands the "Addington society", a debating society set up in his honour. Sherlock shook his head, carrying on.

Just ahead of him stood John, in a different outfit from earlier. "Smarter", Sherlock thought, smiling down. However he then noticed the slim, and even more classily dressed man stood next to John. He had lurid dark brown eyes set into a perfectly oval shaped face, topped with sleek black hair. Expensive suit, tightly fitted. Looking straight at Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't help but feel a little annoyed- he thought he was seeing John alone. Why had someone else come? "Oh good, company!" Sherlock said, with an obvious hint of sarcasm.

"Sherlock, meet my boss. He wanted to have a word with you." John's eyes widened as he let out a small shrug, a secret apology- he didn't know what the man wanted to say.

"Sherlock Holmes." The man said slowly, looking Sherlock up and down. "I pretty much run things round here. It's nice to meet you, I wanted to thank you for your work earlier. Marvellous." He smiled, shaking Sherlock's hand with a grin that was a little too sincere. Sherlock stared him right in the eyes.

"Yes." The man didn't look surprised by this abrupt response.

"Well, I have a preposition for you. We have a spare bedroom in the tutors section, just up the stairs there. John will show you, it's very near his room. There have been some strange goings on these past few days, and I fear we may be needing your help a little more." Sherlock did not let himself smile. "In fact, this just appeared in one of the girls rooms. She was a little anxious- it does seem a little eerie." He held out his hand, it was thin and pale, with a small cut on his index finger. He held a blank piece of paper. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, questioning what was in front of him. "It came in an envelope which said "open me" on the front. With the events of this morning it was bound to give her a fright. Anyway, I'll leave it with you, I'm sure you can use your _extraordinary_ skills." He almost purred, handing the letter over.

"Thank you." Sherlock replied, barely glimpsing at it.

"Take care. Dr Watson, please show Sherlock to his room. Good day gentlemen." John nodded and began walking with Sherlock towards their rooms. "There's only one spare and it's next to mine, so I guess you're in luck!" John joked, trying to break the odd atmosphere that his boss had left behind. Sherlock seemed preoccupied, but he smirked tenderly at John's remark. "Lucky me."

John grinned in return, "So what do you think's the deal with the letter?" Sherlock looked down at the mysteriously blank paper in his hands. Suddenly he narrowed his eyes as if it had spoken and offended him, and he lifted it to his nose, taking in large sniffs of the surface. John stopped and turned to look at him, perplexed.

Sherlock continued obliviously, until he exclaimed loudly "Aha!" he laughed, as though he was remembering a fond memory, just as they entered into his temporary room. John chose to ignore him, becoming increasingly used to his odd remarks. "So this is you. I'm just next door. En-suite is through there- kitchen area there, and bed here. The fridge probably isn't stocked I'm afraid, nobody really uses this room."

"Good point," Sherlock started, "Do you have any lemon in your fridge, by chance? And some perfume?" He asked as though it was a perfectly normal question.

"Um...Lemon, yes. Perfume…no. I'm sure one the students would but- why?"

"Brilliant! Do you think you could go and fetch some? Would be a great help. Thank you." Sherlock answered selectively, blinded by the scent of a theory.

John opened the door of his room, 'rose and jasmine' scented perfume in hand. Sherlock was sat in the kitchen area, his back to the door. John couldn't help but notice the delicate curve of his spine as he arched over his work. He had squeesed a lemon into one of John's small bowls, and was sat in silence, tapping his foot on the floor, waiting for John. "Here you go," John handed the perfume to Sherlock, as Sherlock started to explain:

"When I was little my brother Mycroft and I used to send secret messages to each other. It was quite a bit of fun, we experimented different ways of doing it all the time, but this was our favourite. You get some lemon and squeese the juice out. Then you get a very thin sewing needle, dip in the lemon juice and write your message on to the paper lightly. Then, you hand it to your brother who finds the nearest available source of intense heat, usually just the fire, which you put behind the paper and it burns through to the message. The smell of lemon used to drive my mother mad…" He paused, there was a sad and distant look in his eyes.

He snapped out of it, continuing methodically with his story. "She used to spray her perfume to get rid of the smell. Smell the paper. See? No criminal would scent their letters- they tried to counteract the smell of the lemon, amateur." John could not smell lemon nor perfume on the paper, but nevertheless he trusted in Sherlock's every word; it was obvious that Sherlock had a severely impressive mind so perhaps he had the sense of smell to match. "So, it's obvious who sent it- but what does it say? Could you fetch my lighter please John?"

"Obvious who it is?" John stumbled, trying to keep up.

"Of course. The cut on his finger."

"Come again?"

"Your boss! Small, fresh cut on his left index finger. He's undoubtedly left handed, the way he shook my hand so firmly with his left. When cutting a lemon open to be able to use the juice, you would use the knife like this." He mimicked the cutting open of a lemon, the knife brushing past his index finger. "But the cut was slightly longer than would be expected. Furthermore, the cut was made after cutting the lemon- it was fresher than the time taken that the lemon would have taken to dry. He's trying to test me." Sherlock said this grinning, seeming not at all vexed. John took a deep breath, still trying to come to terms with Sherlock's monologue.

"The lighter please." Sherlock said- pointing to the pocket of his coat which hung next to him. John reached in and passed it over. Sherlock effortlessly flicked the lighter on, and a small flame flickered up. He put it behind the paper and just as Sherlock said, the paper started to carefully burn around letters forming on the page. Sherlock moved quickly, mindful not to burn any parts. "I had to test the lemon and perfume first. If my immediate theory hadn't been correct and I tried this it would have burnt any message away. Fortunately, I'm nearly always right."

John put his hand to his brow and looked down at the floor. He was overcome with a titillating anxiety for Sherlock- what was going on? But he also found himself fighting a deep impulse to smile and run his hand along Sherlock's back, showing his wonderment. "_Incredible_" he thought. Sherlock looked up at him almost as though he had heard John's thoughts. He looked as though he had just won a prize, and his mother had ruffled his hair in congratulations. His eyes twinkled and his lips curved into a loving smile. Sherlock and John stared into each other's eyes, searching for something to say.

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered the task at hand, he broke his gaze and returned back to the paper. The burnt out letters formed in to words. Two words. "Clever boy." Sherlock stared at the paper, as his pride began to turn to unease, narrowing his eyes which in turn creased his forehead into confused lines. He turned to look at John once more, who equivalently had a sense of foreboding.

"Why would Moriarty write that, though?"

"What did you say?" Sherlock's eyes widened and his hands flew up his face, his fingers splayed in worriment. His head started to bang intensely, as though he had been struck. Moriarty.

"Jim Moriarty. My boss…"


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3 – The finale part one (of two)_

Sherlock finished leaking the perilous lemon-juice words onto a new sheet of paper, and folded it neatly into an envelope. He lent over John, his hand lightly brushing past John's arm, and reached for the calligraphy pen which was lying delicately on John's kitchen counter surface. Taking the lid off, he stared intently at the envelope with an excitable dread clouding his eyes. He started to scrawl the letters- visible ones now, on to the envelope. The letters were spidery, and ugly. 'Moriarty.' "Give this to a student. Tell them to give it to Professor Moriarty in person." John nodded at Sherlock's commanded.

In the short time they had spent together John had become decreasingly wary of Sherlock's blunt words, instead he admired Sherlock. He stared at him, trying to read him. Trying to find a more human man inside of him that was waiting to come out. He failed. However, this searching came with an abundant understanding-he comprehended Sherlock as a person, and in turn they already shared a poignant bond, for John felt that Sherlock too, understood him. John left in silence.

Sherlock's hands were poised delicately on the table so that all of his fingertips caressed the finger tip of the opposite hand, in an almost diamond shape. He was thinking- deeply. " So Sherlock- what's the plan? You've let him know that you know what he's up to- now what? Get us killed? He's not kidding around, Sherlock." Sherlock liked the way he had said his name twice.

"Us?" he raised one eyebrow, but did move out of his position. He did not look at John.

"Well, I can't let you go there alone can I?"

"I'm perfectly capable."

"Even so."

"Hmm." Sherlock finally looked up to meet John's eyes. "Let's go then." He smirked, hauling on his coat and moving swiftly out of the door. John followed, pulling on his jacket.

Moriarty stood in his office when the knock came at the door- he had been expecting it for quite some time now. "Come in." The girl entered, looking meek and nervous.

"Professor. It's from Dr-"

"I know." Moriarty cut the girl short and seized the letter from her hands. "Go." She pushed her glasses back up her nose from where they had slipped down and left, her shoulders slumped and her hair falling abashedly over her face. He tore open the letter, his relentless impatience getting the better of him. Ah, he should have known. Clever, Sherlock. Clever. He had written back in the same style that Moriarty had sent him to prove that he understood. "Nice touch." He said aloud, pulling a black lighter from his pocket. Burning the letters through was an intense satisfaction: things were going to get interesting.

_'11pm. The Bodleian- underground, of course. I'm sure that's much more fitting for what you have in mind. _

_The game is on.'_

Moriarty let out a menacing chuckle, full of joy- Sherlock had lived up to his expectations, then. But he hadn't predicted that Sherlock would want to play…of course, Moriarty had a plan in case, but was it…explosive enough? Moriarty wondered. "I'll up the stakes." He thought.

Sherlock and John walked side by side, entering in to the winding underground tunnels and rooms of the Bodleian Library, property of Oxford University and the home of nearly every book ever published. "Books." Sherlock stated.

"Yes…books." John replied, giving him a look of peculiar confusion.

"Under Irish Law, The Bodleian is entitled to request a copy of each book published in the Republic of Ireland."

"Really?"

"Yes…I thought you'd know that- you work here!" Sherlock shrugged eccentrically, a look of bewilderment on his face.

"No, Sherlock. Not "really"- I mean, _really?_ You're citing Irish laws whilst we walk into the hands of a man who wants to hurt us."

"Oh relax," Sherlock said as if he were telling him off. "I know what I'm doing."

"I certainly hope so." They arrived at the dusty steps which would lead them back to the ground floor, also the end of the extensive underground tunnels. It opened out into the Radcliffe Camera- an additional reading room for the Bodleian- it was a hugely extravagant circular building with upper-tiered reading rooms and bannisters which seemed to reach up to the heavens. There was a large open space in the middle, which lightened the room out and it seemed as though if you were to run your hands along the sides, you would feel velvet. Every pore of the building seeped beauty and elegance, and the exquisite décor placed on the walls transformed the building into a palace.

"Every palace needs a drama queen," Sherlock whispered in John's ear as Moriarty stepped out from behind the shadows. John smiled downwards, trying not to laugh.

"Boys!" Moriarty grinned, his eyes piercing right into theirs. "I'm so glad you came." John found the whole situation very baffling, Moriarty was his boss, what did he want with Sherlock?

"What do you want?" He asked aloud, becoming agitated.

"Oh!" Moriarty started to laugh. "I forgot that this one doesn't really get it." He jerked his thumb towards John, rolling his eyes. Sherlock kept a steady face. "Well then, let me explain." He cleared his throat loudly and pulled out his collar, nearing Sherlock and John. Sherlock pulled out a gun. Small, shiny, black and deadly. John wasn't even aware that he had one,

"Woah, woah, Sherlock, what's going on?" He almost shouted, stepping sideways away from the troubling gun. Moriarty moved backwards, raising his hands as if he was surrendering. His mouth moved into a small 'o' shape, it was almost comical.

"Slow down big boy. We can't start the fun just yet, Watson here still isn't quite up to date."

"Explain then. But do try and be quick, we were really hoping to go out and get some dinner." Sherlock flashed a pseudo smile, and lowered the gun.

"Well, Sherlock. I've been watching you for some time, you know, just keeping an eye. _Consulting detective," _the words slithered off his tongue gravely. "You think you're quite the man don't case after case, never wrong. Always winning. You couldn't bear to lose, could you?"

"I've never had to experience loosing, Moriarty." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

"Quite. But neither have I, Sherlock." He raised his eyebrows, the tension becoming insufferable. "So who will win this time?"

"This isn't a game! This is life!" John burst out, fear coursing through him.

"This is both." Sherlock responded, turning to John. John cursed, turning his back to Sherlock and scratching his head. He knew that Sherlock would not give up until he beat Moriarty, but Moriarty seemed to be severely devoted too.

"Good boy. Now, I won't be a minute, just going to slip into something a little more comfortable." Moriarty smirked- he trusted that Sherlock would still be there when he got back- he wasn't the type to run away. Sherlock looked bewildered. "Oh! And something else," Moriarty started to speak once again, "There's dynamite set to explode if anyone goes through it, right around the doorway. Oh, and all around this room. But that has a detonator. More about that later." He spoke as if he was giving a guided tour, gave a grimacing wink, and then disappeared into a small side room.

John turned to Sherlock, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. He was trying to keep in his rage, fear and hurt.

"I did not come here to die!" John shouted, his fists squeezing tightly. "And I _certainly_, did not come here to see you die!" He looked at Sherlock now, the fear scintillating in his eyes. He paced up and down, his brain hammering. He felt as though his insides were about to burst, he was facing death; looking at it right in the eye and refusing to go. He could _feel_ his blood streaming through him- fast and thick. His heart was beating furiously, crashing ferociously against his rib cage. His breaths were coming faster and growing more and more heavy. And that was when it happened.

He strode directly over to where Sherlock was standing, scratching his head with his gun. Sherlock looked up, an apprehensive twinkle in his eyes. He began to talk but all of a sudden his lips were covered. John placed his hands firmly on Sherlock's neck and pulled his face closer, their noses brushing, their eyes piercing directly into each other's, searching for a way to stay alive.

Sherlock's mind was racing. This was completely new to him; _feeling. _Before he was unaware of social queues, immune to caring; to loving. He was used to his mind taking over; investigating, observing, thinking. He was accustomed to always knowing the answer, always having a solution. But this time it was different; he felt an overwhelming imperativeness to keep another human being safe. It was no longer about the glory of being intellectually superior to another; it was about the man that he had put in a position of danger. He wanted to say something, to apologise and confess everything, but he was silent. His guard was down and he was vulnerable, stuck in an intolerable limbo between his feelings and his genius mind, which was conscious of the dilemma at hand: enticed by the chance of beating Moriarty.

Suddenly their lips collided. John's were rough against Sherlock's smoothness. It felt _right. _Sherlock found the one thing in his life which had finally caused his brain to stop racing. His thoughts were at peace as John and he moved in sync. It seemed like an eternity and no time at all, as the world stopped around them. They pulled away, opening their eyes and remembering life. Nothing was said for a few minutes- John continued his pacing and Sherlock returned to throwing the gun between his left and right hand, contemplating.

"John-" he started,

"No. Sherlock, don't speak." John turned to him, breathing laboriously "Just think." Sherlock nodded, knowing that they would do anything to come out alive.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter four- the finale part two (of two)_

With this thought, Moriarty entered back in to the room. He was unaware of the kiss that Sherlock and John had shared, but they were still very much aware. Moriarty wore a heavily padded over-jacket, packed with rods and rods of carcinogenic dynamite. Moriarty twirled, slowly, terrorisingly.

"Explosive, right?" He laughed. "So here's the thing: all this glorious dynamite around the place," He pointed at dozens of places around the lavish room, "…Won't go off without being detonated. And the detonator, is...Right. Here." He said slowly, pointing to his chest. "In the midst of all these other explosives. Quite fun, really. In fact, quite genius wouldn't you say, Sherlock?" He chuckled again, Sherlock's jaw tightening.

"Not really." He smirked back. "Why kill yourself to kill someone else? A little…pointless, perhaps." He said bluntly, shrugging.

John was silent, his thoughts racking. How could this man, who had displayed so much passion just minutes before, now be discussing death with such little care. Was he just awfully good at hiding his fears? Or did he simply have none?

"Well. You see Sherlock, I take this 'winning' thing very seriously. I had to up the stakes, make it interesting. I'm sure you already know what's going on, but for dumbo here I may need to spell it out." He turned his head towards John, who in truth did not know what was happening, but would not let that show. He stared Moriarty straight back in the eyes valiantly. "I'm wearing the detonator to kill us. So I can kill you, by setting it off. Or you can set it off, and kill me. Well, and you too, but either way we all die so that's not so important. The significance is, who ends our lives? Him, or me? Who is the decider, the winner?"

"There are no winners in death." Sherlock shot back at him, straight faced.

"We both know that's not true." Moriarty said in return. "There is always a superior." He brushed off his collar. "It's a game, essentially. Who is the queen of the castle, and whose the dirty rascal?" he laughed again.

"You're insane!" John exclaimed, fearful and raging.

"Oh, don't flatter me," Moriarty waved a hand as if to brush it off.

Sherlock smoothed down his black suit, hands tense. "Say we found a way out?"

"There isn't one." Straight face. Sharp eyes. He wasn't bluffing.

Sherlock imagined he and John's infinity stretching into death- something he was not prepared for. His eyed darted round the room, trying to spark something in his mind- a brief piece of history which points them in the direction of a solution, something, anything.

John was doing the same- but not based on any encyclopaedia of knowledge stored up inside his head, but searching through his memories of working at Oxford.

Moriarty tapped his foot. "I guess it's a waiting game then. How long will it be before I blow us all to smithereens? How long until you cave in, realise there's nothing in that genius mind of yours that can save you? How long until you shoot me- detonating the explosives like dominos. The whole place will go up. It will go down in history." He licked his lips.

Of course Sherlock knew how to defuse bombs, but there were so many and Moriarty would sooner blow himself up than letting Sherlock getting away unhurt.

John thought and thought and thought until his mind was numb- he was searching every nook and cranny of his mind for a way to become safe.

Sherlock remained peering round the building, studying every inch to find something. He wasn't sure what, just something. Suddenly, something caught his eye. He looked past it, aware of Moriarty's eyes on him, conscious not to look for too long in case Moriarty saw that he was possibly on to something. He looked over at John- trying to tell him to preoccupy Moriarty. He looked straight-faced into his eyes, and John seemed to understand. He started to speak,

"Why do this though? That's what I don't get." Moriarty was now focusing on John, Sherlock eye's were free to wonder.

"Oh for goodness sake… I've already said, slowcoach." He jerked his head towards John, so that he was standing just inches away. "Don't you listen?" He cocked his head to one side.

"Indeed. It just all seems a little…over the top, if you ask me." John was nervous speaking to Moriarty like this, he didn't want to aggravate him.

"Oh really?" John nodded. Sherlock's ever observant skills had allowed out him to pick out a small break in a line of very neatly side-by-side stacked books on one particular shelf. It was a small book which seemed to be the colour of wood, slightly burnt at the edges. It was on the bookshelf designated to languages. The book had a small word carved into the spine 'ianua'. Sherlock smiled to himself, "Yes, Yes!" He thought.

"Oh, let him have his fun," Sherlock said to John, smiling. "Don't… hold him down, let him do as he pleases." Again, he glared into John's eyes, subtly emphasising his words "hold him down". John's eyes narrowed, he tried not to furrow his brow but his apprehension was making him uneasy. Was Sherlock asking him to hold Moriarty down? He couldn't possibly be- Moriarty seemed to have a fierce strength driven by pure lunacy, John couldn't conceivably overthrow that- could he?

He supposed he would have to try, if it was the difference between life and death- life with Sherlock, then it was worth it. Sherlock's eyes pleaded into his and he knew he had no other choice.

Time stopped moving. Everything was still, and in the same second everything was moving. Sherlock darted towards one of the edges of the building, sprinting across the floor as though it was on fire. John leapt on to Moriarty, pushing him straight over . He hooked his arm round Moriarty's neck and pinned his arms to the flaw with his knees. He said nothing but willed Sherlock to hurry. He did not know what was going to happen. Sherlock reached his destination at the nearest piece of dynamite and picked it up, cradling it in his arms he ran back to the book that he had seen earlier. Ianua was latin. It meant _passage_. He pushed it pack in line with the other books. He knew Oxford would have some kind of secret door; it was a place of history, deceit and genius. Below him a circular panel of flooring started to become loose. It twisted round mechanically and started to lower. It would lead to the underground network beneath the Camera and the Bodleian.

"NO!" Moriarty yelled, pushing and struggling against John. John used the most powerful strength available to him to keep Moriarty down- the strength that he found within when he thought of Sherlock. When he thought of what dying and what living meant for them. H3 turned round as Sherlock shouted,

"NOW!" He sprung up from his position and leapt on to the rotating platform. "JUMP!" Sherlock instructed, as he threw the piece of dynamite up in the air- he raised his gun and shot precisely the centre of the stick. As they jumped and landed at the bottom of the underground passageway, the dynamite exploded, setting off every other explosive in the room- just as Moriarty had said it would. The noise was resoundingly painful, ringing in their ears. Pieces of the building started to fall around them, and they ran, and ran, and ran.

As they lay on the ground, dirt settled on their faces leaving dirty stain marks of their ordeal, they were silent. All they could hear was each other's heavy, desperate breathing and the sound of distant sirens. They had survived. They had come out alive. Suddenly, their silence was split into an uncontrollable laughter. It was Sherlock who started it, and John who joined in. Their laughs complimented each other's; joining together their relief and elation. Sherlock turned his head on his side so that he was staring into John's eyes,

"I. Won." He said slowly, in his deep voice.

"So you did!" they both continued to laugh together, John's eyebrows raised. "Well done."

"Thank you."

And those were the last words that were spoken before the police arrived, Lestrade wanting to know every detail. Sherlock and John were both dumbfounded, but not regretful of what they had been through. When they closed their eyes that night before slipping into an exhausted sleep, they would not recall the way they had faced death so intimately, or the way they had been in a room full of enough dynamite to blast them into tiny pieces. No. They would remember the kiss that they had shared; the moment of devotion and intensity that they had taken delight in. Then, during their slumber they would dream of the many more embraces to come.


End file.
